In Sickness and In Health
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Isobel is unwell and needs Elsie's help. Will contain Carson/Hughes and Isobel/Richard. Set mid series 2.
1. Chapter 1

**I have no idea where this came from. I haven't written Elsie/Isobel friendship for a while and I fancied writing something slightly dark. Set mid-series 2, but not really compliant with canon because it's not going to mention Isobel leaving.**

She knows what that sound is; it's unmistakable and the house is a hospital now, she hears it all too frequently. Still, it sends a tiny shiver up her spine. She had not expected to hear it here in the cold and quiet corridor that runs around the back of the house where the hospital has set up its offices; that sound is usually confined to the ward. For a few moments she hovers outside the bathroom door, she counts to five and doesn't hear anything else. Tentatively, she taps on the door.

"Are you alright?" she calls as softly as she can, realising only then that she had no idea who to expect on the other side of the door. Absurdly, she almost laughs, realising that there is no way that whoever is on the other side of that door is alright, "Can I do anything for you?"

"Mrs Hughes?" a voice, equally quiet and so shaky she barely recognises whose it is, replies, "Ca-?"

"Do you want me to come in, Mrs Crawley?" Elsie asks, her hand already resting on the door handle.

"Please," Mrs Crawley replies, her voice equally small.

Entering the tiny bathroom, Elsie is confronted by the sight she had imagined, and yet is still thoroughly shocked by. Isobel Crawley, her face as white as the hospital linen, her eyes wide, red and watery, kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet bowl, where she has evidently just thrown up. As hard as she can, Elsie tries not to upset the woman more by letting her surprise show. Isobel's hands are shaking a little. Elsie blinks hard before she speaks.

"You've been sick," she states mechanically, her own hands clasped hard, "I'll fetch you the doctor."

"No!" Isobel blurts out forcefully, looking slightly panicked by the suggestion, "Don't do that."

"You're not well," Elsie tells her, "You of all people know that you must be sensible about things like this. Unless you're telling me this happens all the time?" she cannot help but raise an eyebrow sceptically.

Isobel gets up uneasily but makes it to her feet before Elsie can help her; flushing the toilet, wiping her mouth and crossing to the sink to run her hands under the cold water. Then she sits down in the shallow stone niche in the wall, her hands resting on her knees.

"I get ill like this very easily, it's nothing extraordinary," she speaks slowly, measuring her words, "I often feel nauseous when I'm exceptionally worried about things."

Well, Elsie thought, that certainly made sense. It wasn't as if anyone was having an easy time at the moment, but Elsie could at least be thankful that her own son wasn't away fighting.

"Then if it's not the illness that's out of the ordinary," she told her, perching beside her, "Surely it makes sense that you should tell Dr. Clarkson that you are so very worried."

"I'm not telling Richard," Mrs Crawley repeated, even more firmly than before, "Then he'll only worry about me."

"And I think he'd be quite right to, at the moment," Elsie replied honestly, not remarking upon the use of the doctor's Christian name.

"No, you don't understand," Isobel insisted, "I mean, he'll _really _worry about it. He'll worry about me."

"I should think he would," Elsie replied, deciding to err on the side of caution and opt for the more innocent line of argument,"He can't do without you here, he'll need you to get better."

"Mrs Hughes," Isobel spoke with a hint of sharpness, "Please don't pretend you don't know what I mean. He'll really worry about me because we're lovers."

Elsie sighed. Yes, she thought it might have been something of that description. Isobel cast her a wary look.

"I know you won't tell anyone," she told her, almost as an afterthought.

Elsie was quiet for a moment.

"You're lovers and he doesn't know that you're ill?" she asked, a little incredulously.

A shadow seemed to fall over Isobel's face, her expression darkened distinctly, though Elsie had no idea how.

"We're lovers rather more in theory than in practice at the moment," she replied finally, looking at her knees.

Biting her lip, Elsie extended an arm rather timidly around Isobel's shoulder. Feeling the comforting gesture, Isobel smiled a little, inclining her head a little towards Elsie, and sniffed.

"But you haven't...-" Elsie knew she was intruding, but couldn't quite work out how to phrase her intrusion, "You're still-... together, as it were?" she asked.

"By God, I hope so," Isobel replied, without a hint of irony, "When all of this is over at least, if we can't before then."

"Then you need to talk to him," Elsie told her, "You have to tell him that you're unwell."

"He has enough to worry him without this."

"He needs to worry about this," Elsie insisted, "If he's worth bothering with he'll want to worry about you, and look after you."

Isobel looked at her very hard for a moment.

"He is," she assured her.

"Then, tell him. Tell him this evening."

"I don't know how to. I don't know how I'd begin. At the moment it's almost as if we don't need to speak to understand each other, so we don't. That, and we hardly ever have the time."

Elsie knew exactly what she meant. She couldn't help but fleetingly think of Charles, but pushed him to the back of her mind for a moment.

"You do need to, though," she pressed on, "He obviously can't read your mind entirely."

Slowly, Isobel nodded.

"You're right," she told her, "I should speak to him."

She said it as if it was the most difficult thing in the world.

"If you like," Elsie suggested, "I could say something to him beforehand, so that he knows that he needs to see you properly this evening, away from here."

"Would you?" Isobel asked, "You don't mind? I don't want you to feel as if I'm using you as some kind of go-between..."

"I suggested it," Elsie reminded her gently, "I don't mind. I'd like to help you."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Apologies for the delay; my several lengthy excursions are to blame.**

Elsie approached the door of the doctor's office, on the very same corridor where she had found Mrs Crawley earlier that day, but not without a little hesitation. It struck her that, despite her having freely offered to do so, she was not altogether used to approaching other womens' lovers in order to discuss fairly intimate matters on their behalf. Come to that, she could barely bring herself to talk about her own intimate affairs with anyone else. Again her mind flitted towards Charles, and lingered there for a second, before she pushed him firmly from her thoughts and concentrated on what she was here for. She had told Isobel that she would do this for her, and she was certainly not going to go back on her word. As far as she could tell, Dr. Clarkson was a reasonable man and she had little reason to be nervous.

Raising her hand, she knocked on the door and waited for a response, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet; somehow unable to stand still. Selfishly, half of her hoped he would not be in.

"Come in," came the reply.

Hesitating for one more moment, she took a deep breath before turning the handle and entering.

The doctor sat at his desk, the mountains of paper around him and the slightly harassed look in his eye giving the impression of his being rather swamped.

"Mrs Hughes," he addressed her, giving her a slightly weary smile, "What can I do for you?"

"Might I sit down?" she asked, feeling that it would probably be best that way- so that she was not tempted to dance nervously from foot to foot while talking to him- "There's something I rather need to talk to you about."

"You're not ill, I hope?" he asked, screwing the lid onto his pen and placing it on the desk to listen.

"_I'm_ not," she told him.

"Mr Carson, then?" he asked.

"No," she told him, wondering briefly why Charles was the person the doctor assumed she would be here to see him about, and realising that it was quite obvious. She shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts, "Actually, Dr. Clarkson, I'm not here to see you on my own behalf at all. I wanted to talk to you about Mrs Crawley."

"Mrs Crawley?" he repeated, clearly surprised, concern evident in his voice, "Isobel?"

He spoke her name with just a slight edge of tenderness on his lips that Elsie would have probably missed had she not known what Isobel had told her earlier in the day.

"Yes, Dr. Clarkson," she told him softly, thinking it best to enlighten him now, so that they might speak frankly from the beginning, "I know, you know. About you and her. Don't worry," she supplied hurriedly, seeing his eyes widen slightly, "She told me. I doubt I'd have guessed otherwise. And I don't judge you in any way for it, or intend to tell anyone else."

It seemed to take him a moment to take all of this in.

"Why did she tell you?" he asked finally.

Elsie only blinked once before telling him plainly:

"I found her in the bathroom down the corridor this morning, throwing her guts up."

The doctor's eyes widened even further. Clearly, she thought, he had had no inkling about this before now.

"Wha-?"

"She seemed to think it was to be rather expected," Elsie told him, "She said it's what happens when she's exceptionally worried."

For a few moments, the doctor seemed to be completely lost for words; sitting back in his chair, his elbow resting on the wooden arm, his fingers pressed against his pursed lips in thought. Evidently, his mind was reeling from having to take in so much shocking information at once.

"Why?" he asked at last, "I mean, I don't doubt that she's worried- of course she is- but why, why didn't she tell me about it?"

The question, given the doctor's questioning expression, was clearly not a rhetorical one. Elsie looked at the desk for a second.

"I don't think that's really for me to say," she replied, "I think you'd do much better to ask her that yourself."

"Please, Mrs Hughes. Don't think I don't intend to ask her, but I need to know where I should begin."

Rubbing her hand against the side of her face, Elsie took a deep sigh.

"It seemed to me as if recently you'd rather drifted apart," she surmised as gently as she could, "Would I be right in saying that?"

The doctor looked at her levelly before shutting his eyes heavily and rubbing his hand against them.

"Probably," he acknowledged reluctantly; regret sounding in every syllable.

"Well," Elsie continued, still hesitating a little, "Then I would say that the reason she hasn't told you is a mixture of not wanting you to worry about her, and feeling just slight too far away from you to be able to talk openly about how worried she is."

For a few moments he looked rather thunderstruck.

"But doesn't she know that I worry about her anyway when she doesn't talk to me?" he asked incredulously, "Doesn't she realise that I love her- _love _her- and _need_ to know when something like this happens?"

"Have you ever told her that you love her?" Elsie asked in return, "I mean really told her?"

"Not in so many words," he admitted, "But, I thought, the meaning was always implicit." He was quiet for a few minute more. "Help me, Mrs Hughes, "he asked her, looking rather helpless, "What should I do?"

"You really want to know what I think?" she asked, "I know that she's going to be in Crawley House, alone, from six o'clock this evening. Go to her. Make her tell you all of this herself. Make her talk to you. Then tell her that you love her, like you just told me now, leave her in no doubt of it. Then you take care of her, give her whatever she needs. Make sure she knows she's not alone."

"You think I've neglected her," he surmised grimly.

"That's not for me to say," she replied, "I certainly think you've both lost sight of each other recently. But as far as I can see that doesn't matter. What matters now is that you can put it to right." She paused for a second, biting her lips slightly. "I will say that you needn't worry that she doesn't love you any more. I could tell that she does, she is desperate for you. All she needs now is for you to go to her. And, if you're lucky, it may be quite as simple as that."

He looked at her silently for a moment.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," he told her sincerely, "That you very much indeed."

"You are very welcome," she replied, "I do hope you don't feel that I'm intruding."

"Quite the opposite," he assured her, "I am very glad indeed that you've told me. And don't think that I won't to something to put all of this to right."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Some Carson/Hughes for those of you waiting patiently for it.**

"You seem a little bit out of sorts this evening. If you don't mind me saying."

Elsie knew it was Charles' voice, but didn't quite catch what he had said. They were the only ones left at the table in the servants hall; the rest of the staff had departed to the village for an hour or so, and everything was quiet.

"I'm sorry," Elsie replied quickly, "What did you say?"

His brow creased in a slight frown.

"I said you seem out of sorts," he repeated, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she replied, giving him a business-like half-smile, rubbing her hand across her forehead, "_I'm _alright. It's just been a very strange day, that's all."

He did not push her to say more than she wanted to, though she could sense that a part of him could not help being slightly curious. She thought for a moment about telling him everything- given how much of their day to day lives they recounted moment for moment to each other it felt almost wrong not to- but she had promised both Mrs Crawley and the doctor that she would not give them away, and she had a feeling that the smallest revelation on this subject could lead very rapidly to the whole affair being exposed. So she smiled at him again, and said nothing.

"Just as long as you're alright," he told her, "I don't mind telling you that I was rather worried when I saw you going into Dr. Clarkson's office earlier today. Is it one of the maids, then, that's ill?"

That certainly took her aback a little; she hadn't been expecting him to have seen her. And judging by his expression, that surprise showed in her face, combined with the effort of having to think up an alternative explanation very quickly.

One of his eyebrows was raised, not unkindly but authoritatively.

"Do you want to tell me what you were really doing in Dr. Clarkson's office?" he asked her, "Always assuming that it's something I want to know about."

She did not like the inflection he gave that statement, and she was fleetingly reminded that one of the reasons she had not told him what she'd found out in the first place was because he had a tendency to be a tad judgemental at times.

"You seem quite determined to find out nonetheless," she remarked, raising her own eyebrows a little, "And I will tell you that I was speaking to him on behalf of Mrs Crawley. She has been feeling under the weather lately."

Charles did not seem altogether satisfied with this explanation.

"Why couldn't she tell him herself?" he asked.

She sighed, frowning a little. Obviously, she _was _going to end up telling him sooner or later.

"How long do you have?" she asked in return.

…**...**

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Richard had been inwardly reeling all day; his mind never entirely focusing on what it was supposed to, his thoughts constantly occupied- either partially or fully- by Isobel. He could not believe that she hadn't told him that she was ill, or worried, or whatever she was. The fact that he could not clearly define her problem to himself only worried and frustrated him even more. He blundered through work for the rest of the day, hoping that no one would notice him. No one did, and it was with relief that, at quarter to six in the evening, he put on his coat and locked his office door.

But then a different emotion altogether overcame him; much more akin to a renewed and intensified sense of apprehension. The thought struck him as he walked down the drive of the big house towards the village that he had no idea what he was going to do. What Mrs Hughes had said earlier had sounded so easy, so simple and natural that it had seemed like nothing at all. Now, faced with the prospect of carrying it out, it seemed nothing short of herculean. His pace was slow due to his anxiety.

He tried to keep telling himself that it really was as simple as letting Isobel know that he still loved her, and that he was there to look after her. There was not a shred of untruth in that, and no reason that he should want to make any secret of it. But the thought kept occurring to him: what if she didn't want to hear it from him? There was no denying that they had become somewhat estranged lately- it was well over a month since they'd slept together, and he struggled to remember the last time they'd spent a night at each other's side- and that was largely due to the number of hours he was working. He knew that he couldn't be blamed for the amount of work that there was to do, but a little voice in his head told him that perhaps he was to blame for choosing to do it all himself, or trying to do it all himself. Well, tonight he had left Sgt. Barrow in charge of the hospital, with the express instruction that he was only to be sent for in the most extreme emergency.

He knocked on the front door very nervously, taking a step back once he had done so. It was already beginning to get dark. He knew Isobel would be the one to answer the door, Mrs Hughes had said that she would be the only one in and he was anxious to make the right impression.

When the door opened a few moments later he was inspecting the toes of his shoes, and he looked up sharply at the sound of the hinges, straight into Isobel's eyes- for a second blocking everything else out of his mind, simply looking at her. All that he could immediately make out from her face was that she was looking tired.

There was a moment's silence.

"Come in, Richard," she told him at last, stepping aside to let him past and closing the door behind them.

He hung his own coat up on the coat stand behind the door; turning back around to face her. He looked at her eyes again. Their expression was not in anyway unkind or angry, and it bolstered his confidence.

"There are things..." he began, "We need to talk about. You, first of all. And then us, I think."

She nodded slowly.

"I think we had best sit down," she told him quietly, leading him out of the hall and into the sitting room.

They sat down close to each other, her in her chair and him in the near corner of the sofa so that they faced in towards each other on the corner. He rested his hand flat on the arm of the sofa. She sat straight up, tensely. She looked pale: tired and pale.

"You've not been well," he said, finally.

"No," she agreed, "It's true, I've been feeling rather sick."

"Mrs Hughes told me that she found you on the floor today," his voice shook a little, speaking the words out loud made him really realise their meaning, their severity, the state she was in, and his eyes almost threatened to fill with tears, "She seemed to think that it was sickness induced by great emotional strain, or worry, or a mixture of both. Isobel, why didn't you tell me?"

Her face filled with surprise at the way his voice sounded.

"I couldn't, Richard," she told him, "You would have lost sleep over me. You have enough on your plate without me adding to it. I managed by myself"

"Don't you think I've been losing sleep over you as it is?" he asked her, "You should never, never have had to manage this by yourself! You should know that I love you too much for that. The way you've not spoken to me this past few weeks has worried me half to death."

"Why didn't you come back to me, then?" she asked him, looking him full in the face, sounding just a touch accusing, "On one of those nights when you couldn't sleep?"

He couldn't think of a good reason for that, except to say:

"It never felt like the right moment. I couldn't have known when you'd want to see me."

"There was never a moment when I would have turned you away," she told him, with such an astonishing simplicity that it struck him hard, but not quite as much as the next thing she said, "Not a single moment. You would have been a great comfort."

He bowed his head a little, his mind boggle by his own stupidity.

"How do you feel at the moment?" he finally asked, for a second needing to make sense of this in purely medical terms before they continued, "Is the sickness still there?"

"A little," she replied, not at all surprised by his approach "But not as much as before."

"And will you allow me to comfort you now? Can you forgive me for the way I've behaved?"

He saw her teeth biting her lip softly for a second, before she nodded, haltingly. She still looked pale; her lips were trembling.

"Yes," she replied, tears appearing in her eyes this time, "Can you forgive me for not telling you everything sooner?"

"You still haven't told me everything yet," he reminded her, "But it would seem that we have all night, if you have the energy for it?"

She nodded, reaching her hand to rest on top of his on the arm of the chair.

"You've never told me before," she whispered, looking at their hands.

"What?"

"That you love me."

"Haven't I?"

"Never in words. Not like that."

He looked up into her face and said it again.

"I love you, Isobel."

"I love you too, Richard."

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	4. Chapter 4

He took her by the hand, leading her towards the stairs. Now that he was here to take care of her he was determined to do so properly, thoroughly. He held on to her gently but firmly, supporting her elbow as they reached the top of the staircase, guiding her into the bathroom and sitting her down in the wicker chair next to the sink. He could feel that her body was exhausted of almost all tension so that she moved slowly and sleepily, quite weakly.

He ran a warm, deep bath for her, helping her out of her dress and held her hand again as she sat down in the water. She was strikingly thinner than the last time he'd seen her undressed, alarmingly so, but he tried not to stare at the jutting of her usual curves. It was only at that moment that he understood how bad this problem was. His beautiful Isobel, his goddess reduced to this. It frightened him, but, trying to console himself, he just kept his hands close to Isobel's skin. Tenderly, rolling up his sleeves and kneeling down beside the bath, he ran the soap all over her body, he washed her hair. He had been a doctor for his entire working life, but this feeling of complete care for another human being was entirely new to him. He couldn't feel the pressure of the hard floor on his knees, all he could think of was her.

They were silent, they did not speak a single word until he stood up, looking in the bathroom cabinet for the set of his pyjamas that used to be kept in there.

"Er, Isobel. Where have my pyjamas gone?" he asked, preparing to hide his dismay if the answer came that she had thrown them away.

She looked up plaintively from where she sat in the bath, her knees hugged to her chest.

"In my bedroom," she replied hesitantly, "Under the pillow."

Instead he bit the inside of his cheeks to stop himself smiling. Returning with the thick flannel pyjamas, he helped her stand up, wrapping her in a towel. The process of drying her in fact consisted of little more than holding her against his body, his hands pressing firmly on her back and her hip through the towel, and lifting the end of it and running it over her hair. Once she was dry he helped her into the pyjamas. He was glad, incredibly glad, that she was letting him help her like this. He kissed her hairline, his hands returning to hold her body, once, twice.

They lay down together on the bed, him wearing his shorts, wordlessly taking their usual sides- him on the left, her on the right- as if it was what they still did every night. They wrapped themselves in the blanket; her head resting on his shoulder and one of his hands cupping her face. Her arms wrapped tightly around his back and his other hand rested soothingly at her hip.

For a while, they simply lay, torn between basking in the feeling of their bodies having been chastely reunited like this and wondering how they should begin to talk. After the period of protracted, silent intimacy talking seemed to carry a huge, almost insurmountable, weight of significance.

"Thank you, Richard," she whispered finally, "Thank you for taking care of me."

"You don't have to thank me," he told her, "I wanted to."

"Thank you all the same," she insisted, "For doing so so proficiently."

"It doesn't make up for the fact that I wasn't here to do it before," he murmured.

"Perhaps it does. In a different way," she replied, sighing a little, "Richard, I don't want you to blame yourself for what I didn't choose to tell you."

"Why didn't you tell me, Isobel?" he asked imploringly, his thumb running along the top of her cheek, under the curve of her eye, "Didn't you think that I would have wanted to help?"

"I knew you would, but it didn't seem fair to burden you. People do that enough for you at the moment without me adding to it. I know now that I should have told you."

"And does this always... Have you always reacted like this to... to worry?" he asked cautiously.

"Ever since I was pregnant with Matthew," she told him, "I wasn't especially young to be having my first baby and I had quite a difficult pregnancy."

He soothed her cheek again.

"And what are you worried about now to make this happen?" he asked, "I know some of it won't take much imagination, but tell me anyway, I need to hear it from you and you will feel better for telling someone. We have all night; if you arrive at the hospital tomorrow, I'm sending you away."

They were both quiet for a few moment afterwards. It struck him then that he could feel the beat of her heart perfect through the flannel pyjamas.

"Everything," she whispered, exhaling the word on one long breath, "It feels sometimes as if I'm worried about everything. Matthew, of course, but often that's so bad that I don't think of him at all, I can't, it's too oppressive, I can hardly breathe from fear. Then I worry that that makes be a heartless person. It certainly makes me a bad mother. I worry about the hospital, about keeping it running with Violet and Cora interfering at every opportunity. And there's the war in general, because we don't hear the worst of it but it still seems to be going badly. And you. I'm terrified that you work too hard and make yourself ill."

"Like you have done?" he asked, "Isobel, you're so worried about other people that you've forgotten to worry about yourself!"

Her eyes were closed. He realised that she wasn't finished.

"And before now, up until tonight, I worried that you didn't care for me any more, that you were tired of me, that I wasn't worth the time."

"Don't ever think that," he told her fiercely, kissing her forehead, pressing her more tightly to him in reassurance, "I love you, Isobel."

She nodded slowly.

"I know that now," she replied, her eyes opening slowly, "I know you won't ever leave me."

"Never again," he affirmed, "As of tonight I never want to spend a night apart from you again. It's been hell this past month for me too, all because you weren't here with me."

"That could be difficult," she pointed out, biting her lip slightly.

"But you're willing to try?" he finished for her, hopefully.

Gradually, she nodded. Smiling broadly, he leant forward and kissed her lips. They kissed for a long time, him finally breaking away, pulling back.

Disappointment flashed across her face.

"We can't, my love," he told her, "Not tonight."

"I'm not an invalid, Richard," she complained.

"Actually, I think you'll find you are," he pointed out to her, smiling slightly, "That's how we ended up here."

"I'm not fragile, though," she pointed out, "You know better than anyone, I don't break easily. Come on, kiss me."

His hands raised to her hair as he kissed her again, touching the soft, freshly-dried curls at her temple, her hand slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts. Again, he pulled back, but not as far.

She didn't miss a beat.

"Come on, Richard," she told him softly, "I want you. I've wanted you for weeks. Make love to me."

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	5. Chapter 5

He awoke, disconcerted to find that she was gone from by his side. Panic was his immediate reaction, worrying frantically about whether she was alright in spite of decades of medical training. But, his eyes becoming accustomed to the light, he made her out, standing over him, looking quite calm and well, and softened by sleep.

"Isobel?" he asked her groggily, "What's the matter? You don't feel sick again, do you?"

"Shh," she told him gently, "Go back to sleep, I'm completely fine. I just want to go and get a glass of water."

"Let me go and get it for you."

"Don't be silly," her hand pressed his raised arm back down against his body, making him sink back down into the mattress, "I'm already up, you stay there. I won't be a minute."

Lying on his side, he watched her pad out of the bedroom door and cross the corridor to the bathroom. He had to admit, she looked adorable; her long hair spilling untidily down her back, wearing his flannel pyjama shirt which fell just low enough to cover her bottom, her long legs moving gracefully as she walked. The improvement in her whole air since the previous night was astounding, she looked so much better and there was every indication that she felt better too. Only once she was out of sight and he could hear the bathroom tap running did he roll onto his back and let out a contented sigh. He couldn't deny that being with her again had done him the world of good too. He had meant it too, from now on he never wanted to spend a night away from her. He wanted her back already and she had only gone as far as the bathroom.

Re-emerging with a glass of water she put it down on the bedside table, she climbed back into bed beside him, unbuttoning the shirt and slipping it off before he drew the covers back over her, wrapping her snugly in them, and his arms. Her head rested next to his and he kissed her temple, the tip of his nose resting in her hair. He heard her give a quiet hum of contentedness.

"Oh, what have you done to me, Richard?" she sighed, brushing her hand carefully along his body, "How do you make me feel like this?"

"Like what?" he asked.

"Beautiful, in spite of everything."

"You don't need me for that. That's just you in your natural state."

"Well, how do you suddenly make me feel so inexplicably happy?"

"I don't know," he confessed, smoothing his hand over her cheek and kissing her forehead, "But I'm very glad that I do, however I do it. Possibly," he conjectured, "It's because I try my best, last night especially, I tried my best to love you as you should be loved. To make up for... everything."

She smiled at him.

"Thank you," she told him, "But I told you to stop this trying to make it up to me for something that wasn't your fault."

"I know you did," he replied, "And I'll try. But I've decided that we should never be apart for as long again. For that I make no apologies."

She smiled again, biting her lip softly.

"Do you mean you want me to live with you?" she asked him, "For all the world to know?"

"I would only ask you to do that if I knew you were entirely comfortable with it," he assured her, watching her face closely, "And I suspect you're not, without marriage."

"You have me entirely wrong," she told him, on no uncertain terms, "Quite wrong. I don't care what people think. I would view my sharing your house as exactly equal to us becoming married officially. But I know that it might cause us trouble with other people, and I'm not talking about gossip either. Effectively, we're colleagues and you have your position to uphold; and I doubt moving in with your mistress would do you any good on that score."

"You know you're more to me than a mistress?" he asked her seriously.

"I do, but that doesn't mean other people will. Quite the opposite, probably."

"You're right," he agreed, "A good deal of trouble, and you have enough of that at the minute. I refuse to do anything that might make you unwell again. I had no idea you felt that way," he told her earnestly, "About us living together."

"I can still surprise you," she stated, "That must be good. Unless you disapprove of me for it?"

"How could I?" he asked, "So you wouldn't object then, if I put aside a cupboard in my bedroom for you to keep some things in so you can stay more often?"

"I'd like that very much," she told him, leaning in and kissing his lips, "Thank you."

"And after the war..." he began hesitantly, "When we've less trouble on our hands, maybe we could think about..."

"Letting me move my dressing table into your room too?"

"Well, quite."

She laughed, drawing him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissing her again.

**Please review if you have the time. **


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